


Sometimes The Monsters Are Inside of Us (Sometimes They Win)

by Nevcolleil



Category: Inception (2010), Supernatural
Genre: A little bit of gore, Dom/Dean mentioned, In the midst of a zombie slash hellhound slash vamp battle, M/M, mostly cheesy flirting, then some implied sexytimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 13:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11209224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nevcolleil/pseuds/Nevcolleil
Summary: The inside of a Winchester's mind is a scary, scary place.Luckily, Eames is somewhat distracted.





	Sometimes The Monsters Are Inside of Us (Sometimes They Win)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tigriswolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigriswolf/gifts).



> This was written for a prompt at the comment_fic livejournal community.

For the record, Eames didn't approve of Dom's taking this job without conferring with him first (not that Dom ever conferrs with him first - but he bloody well _should_.)

Eames knew they couldn't trust the smarmy bloke who hired them, and recon turned up all sorts of fun little facts about their targets - like a history of grave desecration... Entire towns turning bloody; people disappearing or going starkers en masse. _Grave desecration_. (Eames isn't letting that go. Killing, Eames knows. He can understand. Messing with the dead is just nasty.) He wanted no part of this.

"You _made_ me hire you, Eames," Dom might protest, but-

As one they dodge bits of exploding zombie and carry on as though there aren't more bits of jaw bone - and what looks like a tibia - now scattered amongst the rest of the gore coating every surface, even here behind their barricade.

"I told you we didn't need a forger on this one!" Dom shouts to be heard over the growls of the invisible beasties they've managed to hold off (so far) thanks to a bit of fancy architecture a la Ariadne. She's still twisting the landscape of this hell they've landed themselves in, in order to contain those monsters, but Eames can't look back to see how she's doing.

Arthur is on that side of the barricade, picking off bloodsuckers from a distance with a rifle on one arm, swinging a machete to behead the vamps who get too close with another. If he even catches Eames _looking_ concerned in his direction, Arthur had said, "one more _fucking_ time, Eames, so help me god-"

"You're welcome!" Eames tells Dom, refocusing his concentration on the undead battering their end of things in waves.

Honestly, Eames is almost glad for the army of nightmare creatures descending upon them... he'll take a lopsided battle with big bad made-up things over the little girl in the blood-stained party dress they left on Usef's level... Or the _meat hooks_. 

Eames is going to dream of those meat hooks for months. And he hasn't dreamed in over a decade.

That is, he's glad until the creatures begin to dwindle in number and some stop attacking altogether. Outside of the dreamscape, killing off all of the predators clamoring to get a little nibble out of you is a positive development - but down here...

"What the fuck now?" Eames hears Arthur mutter when he notices the deluge letting up as well.

They're all so tense he can feel it - wonders if their target can, for all that what they've seen so far hasn't been the least bit militarized. (Too disorganized for that - meaning these "boys" their client, Mr. Crowley, sent them after haven't been trained; their brains are just this awful and destructive _naturally_.)

The team draws together in unspoken agreement, backs to one another and weapons lowered but ready. They are, to the last man (and woman), blood-stained, bleeding and ragged; wild-eyed and grim.

"You've been using that word an awful lot lately, haven't you, Arthur?" Eames teases quietly, stepping closer to Arthur's side so as not to be as readily heard by Dom and Ariadne, who are themselves chatting quietly. He just fought an army of zombies. He can brave taking a piss when the mood calls for it, nevermind Arthur's tragic inability to appreciate his good humor when they aren't both covered in the entrails of mythical dangers and their own blood.

Arthur raises one brow at him and nudges a severed head out of his path with the tip of one shoe, as if to say, 'Well.... obviously.'

Eames grins. "I'm only saying, you ought to be careful with talk like that," he says, knowing the joke to be a stretch - but in their gory context, he'll take what he can get. "Someone might get the impression that you've been thinking about fucking more than is common lately."

He can tease about their near encounter of several evenings ago (he won't call it a "rejection"; Arthur didn't _reject_ him. He wasn't making a serious pass at the man, only... gathering intel as to the likely success of one... So.)

Eames can even convince himself that he 's fine with the scathing laugh, the half-fond eyeroll he's most likely to get for his comedic trouble. ('s better than Arthur not being fond at all, isn't it?)

But that's not what happens. Arthur looks at him - just looks, no defensive glare, no scathing blank stare. His lips twitch, almost as if he might like to smile, except he sighs somewhat sadly instead.

(Eames will try and interpret that later. Right now his mind is stuck on the almost-smile. 'Of all the bloody-' he thinks, bemused and unforgivably fond himself - of course Arthur would have the time of his life besieged by demons...)

"Well, denying it hasn't exactly kept you out of trouble," Arthur remarks, so casually that it takes Eames a moment to realize-

Oh.

_Oh_ , he is going to murder this little shit! Right after he shags him senseless... and perhaps (certaintly) vows his eternal devotion.

And then some bastard in a trenchcoat appears directly behind Arthur and drops him with a single touch to his head.

In the immediacy and surprise of the action, Eames even forgets that it isn't real for a second - that this is a dream and there's no such thing as a death touch. He feels a pain so sharp in his chest, he actually looks to see if he's been stabbed, and then Dom's shouting again behind him, fingertips graze his forehead, and there's nothing.

 

 

It's a day for realizations, apparently. 

And not those of the insignificant type.

Angels are real - yes, _that_ is a significant realization. As is that most of the nightmare creatures they saw in the head of one Dean Winchester are, in fact, real and exist outside of peoples' minds. Eames could have lived a long, happy life not knowing that - he thinks.

But, most importantly (to Eames, in any case) Arthur is not as invulnerable to Eames's many charms as the blighted, beautiful, psychopathic pointman had seemingly wanted him to believe.

"Say it again, darling," Eames asks, not at all ashamed to milk this particular revealation for all of the joy and goodwill that is to be had from it.

Arthur groans so loudly, the neighbors must think they've started on another round.

Honestly. They thump on the wall and everything.

"Oy, I've got stamina, but now you're just being silly!" Eames yells loud enough to be heard next door.

"I've created a monster," Arthur says, in his usual scathing voice, but he's almost-smiling again, face soft and body relaxed, at odds with his knee-jerk reaction to Eames being cocky, so Eames only nips him a little with his teeth as he turns over and snuggles in.

"Dear God, no more talk of monsters, please!" Eames mumbles into Arthur's skin, knowing in the way that Arthur stills, just momentarily, that they're going to be talking a lot more about monsters eventually. 

He'd seen Dean and Dom exchanging numbers, but he hadn't known if they'd been discussing business or pleasure.

Content at Arthur's side, Eames hopes generously for both.

"Let's talk about how much you-"

"I'm not saying it again, Eames," Arthur says firmly, but the 'right now' is fairly audible.

"Well, if you won't say it, then I won't say it," Eames warns, rubbing at the corners of Arthur's lips before a frown can even begin there. "Which, you knows, means only one thing."

There's that look of half-fondness Eames had been resigned to settling for - enjoying it, greedy, even now that he's gotten so much more; has been promised so much more, not just aloud.

"What?" Arthur dares ask.

"I'm just going to have to show you," Eames gloats, with his wickedest grin.

Let the neighbors thump their hearts out.


End file.
